


the street's asleep so i breathe you in deep

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Series: bickering idiots in love [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times John Smith fell in love with River Song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the street's asleep so i breathe you in deep

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to ‘waiting for something that hasn’t come through’. 
> 
> Story title from You’re The Reason I Come Home by Ron Pope.

_i.)_

 

He feels like he knows her long before he meets her. Every time he talks to Amy, she mentions her new university friend and the latest outrageous thing she’s done. Her voice is always bright and amused when she speaks of her, full of laughter and that fierce protectiveness he has come to recognize.

 

It’s almost enough to make him jealous. Ever since they were children, Amy and Rory have been his, well, just his. His pseudo parents, his best mates, his support system. Now, with the two of them studying in England and him all the way in Israel, he feels like he’s losing them.

 

He worries that the longer he’s away, the smaller his place in their lives will grow to be. Amy would call him an idiot for that if she knew and he’s relieved to discover when he visits them during the summer that she’d be right. She throws herself into his arms with a delighted squeal when she opens the door to find him on the other side, her lanky arms tight around his neck and her brilliant red hair soft against his cheek.

 

“Hello, Pond.”

 

“Oh, I’ve missed you!” She pulls away from his embrace to shove at his chest, still grinning. “What are you doing here?”

 

Smiling just as widely back at her, he bounces on his toes and says, “Just thought I’d pop in – remind you of how much you should be missing me.”

 

Amy glares, arms crossed over her chest.

 

He huffs, scratching his cheek. “And I might have missed you too. A bit.”

 

She laughs, the stern expression sliding right off her face as she leans in and hugs him again. He wraps her up tight, squeezing his eyes shut. Sometimes, he misses his best mates so much it aches deep down in his chest and there is nothing quite like having it soothed by their arms around him. It makes him feel like a little boy again, small and quiet, but safe so long as Amy and Rory held his hands on the playground.

 

Amy kisses his cheek and steps away again, beaming. “You’re staying at least for the night, aren’t you? Rory’ll want to see you.”

 

“I’ll be here.” He grins. “How is Roranicus? Perfect as ever?”

 

“Oh stop it, you.” She blushes. “He’s been busy interning at the hospital. They’ve got him on night shifts.”

 

She shrugs as she says it but he sees the little smile curling her mouth and hears the pride in her voice she’d never admit to out loud. “So,” he claps his hands together, hoping his face is politely curious rather than indignantly jealous. “Who is this new friend of yours? The archaeologist-to-be? _Yawn_. Couldn’t find any exciting friends, Pond?”

 

“Doctor -”

 

He forges ahead, determined to remind her he is definitely still the most exhilarating person in hers and Rory’s life. “You know archaeologists are just failed adventurers, don’t you? They need a job as an excuse to travel. Cowardly bores, the whole lot of them.”

 

Looking a little red-cheeked, Amy ducks her head with a sigh. “Tea, Doctor?”

 

He beams. “Yes, please.”

 

She lets him in with a grimace and as he slips past her into the little flat just off campus she shares with Rory, he realizes that she isn’t alone. There is a woman sitting on her sofa, curled up with a book she isn’t reading. Instead, she’s staring at him. He stops in the doorway and stares right back because bloody hell, she’s gorgeous. Even sitting he can tell that the woman is nothing but endless curves, right down to her astounding hair. Her eyes are catlike, green and smoldering with some unnamed annoyance. He swallows, vaguely aware of Amy shutting the door behind him.

 

She claps him on the shoulder. “Doctor, this is River Song. Archaeologist-to-be.”

 

His heart sinks. “Ah. Hello.” He offers her a sheepish wave. “How are you?”

 

“Not deaf.” River snaps her book shut and glares.

 

He isn’t even intimidated, too busy noticing how fetching she looks when she’s angry. Oh Christ he’s in trouble.

 

_ii.)_

 

There are so many places he could be spending the holidays – Switzerland, Rome, Dubai – and so many people he could be spending the holidays with – minor celebrities, wild artists, desert tribes – but there is no place he would rather be on Christmas Eve than unassuming little Leadworth at Amy and Rory’s ugly Christmas jumper party.

 

His jumper _lights up_.

 

River, who had refused to participate and shown up wearing mistletoe in her hair instead, had hated it on sight. For some reason, that makes him love it all the more. It absolutely delights him to rile her. It’s the only time she ever pays him a bit of attention.

 

He nurses a cup of hot chocolate and makes boring small talk with Amy and Rory’s coworkers and university friends, all the while watching River out of the corner of his eye. She makes her own rounds, smiling that charming smile at everyone and bestowing kisses on anyone who inquires about the mistletoe woven into her curls. He bristles every time, scowling as he tunes back in to the utterly dull conversation around him.

 

It goes on in the same fashion for half the night until one moment, he goes for a hot chocolate refill in the kitchen and comes back to find her missing. He glances around the crowded living room, trying not to be terribly obvious as he looks for her.

 

“She went outside for a fag.”

 

Apparently he hadn’t tried quite hard enough.

 

He looks over his shoulder, sighing at Amy’s smug face. “I wasn’t -”

 

“You should go check on her. I’m sure she’d appreciate the company.”

 

He frowns. “Certainly not mine.”

 

Amy ignores him, reaching around him for the wool scarf draped over the coat rack. “Give her this, would you?” She tosses it at him and he barely manages to catch it before it lands on his face. “It’s bloody freezing out there.”

 

He trudges out into the cold with the scarf clutched in one fist and his mug of hot chocolate in the other, grumbling to himself the whole way. Ever since Amy found out about his little crush on River she’s done nothing but try to throw them together whenever he happens to be in town. Trouble is, River isn’t nearly as receptive to the idea as he is. That’s his fault, he supposes. He’d insulted her before they even met. She’s been returning the favor ever since.

 

He finds her standing on the pavement a few paces away from the door, one arm wrapped around her middle in a mild attempt at warmth while her other hand brings the cigarette to her lips. He abhors the smell of smoke but he ventures closer anyway, knowing River doesn’t make a habit of it. It’s more of an excuse to escape social situations she doesn’t want to be in.

 

Bloody hell, how does he even know that? He has got to stop paying so much attention to her.

 

He snorts quietly to himself – as if he ever had a choice in the matter – and instantly alerts River to his presence. She whirls, golden curls bouncing around her shoulders as she spots him and narrows her eyes. He can practically see her mind forming an insult. Hesitantly, he holds out the scarf, dangling it between them like the proverbial white flag of surrender. “Amy wanted you to wear this.”

 

She turns back to the street, blowing out a quiet puff of smoke. “I’m not cold.”

 

“Are you kidding?” He shivers. “It’s cold as bollocks out here.”

 

“You wear it then.”

 

He eyes the bright pink scarf with trepidation. “Not really my color.”

 

“Mine either.”

 

River takes another drag from her cigarette and glances at the night sky overhead. He joins her, still clutching the scarf as he takes a slow sip of hot chocolate. It hasn’t snowed yet this year but he knows it will. Soon. He can smell it in the air.

 

“You can’t smell snow.”

 

He blinks, dropping his gaze to find River offering him a scathing look, and realizes he’d made his observation out loud. Lifting his chin imperiously, he sniffs. “Can too.”

 

“No.” She drops her cigarette to the pavement and steps on it with the toe of her high-heeled boot. “You can’t.”

 

The challenge in her eyes makes him grin. “Yeah? Says who?”

 

“Anyone with half a sodding brain,” she snaps. “I suppose that excludes you though, doesn’t it?”

 

He shrugs, still smiling. “Probably excludes anyone who thinks digging in a massive sandbox is a real job too.”

 

Watching in silent amusement as she clenches her jaw, he takes a step toward her and says, “Wear the scarf, please.”

 

“Shove off.”

 

“River, it’s cold -”

 

“I don’t want it.”

 

“Well have a drink of this chocolate -”

 

“No.”

 

He huffs. “Do you have to be so stubborn all the time?”

 

“That depends,” she glowers. “Do you have to be such an idiot all the time?”

 

He stares at her, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, and says, “Sort of. Yes.”

 

Around her, anyway.

 

River sighs, snatching the scarf from him as she turns to march back into the house. He watches her go with a sigh and she’s almost to the door when a snowflake catches in his eyelashes. He bats it away with a wide smile. “Ha! Told you so!”

 

One foot on the doorstep, River keeps her back to him as she lifts her head and watches pure white, fat snowflakes drift lazily from the sky above. They catch in her curls, glistening in the night air as they mingle with the mistletoe nestled in her hair. A few even land on her nose. She wrinkles it, scowling. “You’re insufferable,” she seethes.

 

He doesn’t answer, sticking out his tongue.

 

“That’s the best you can do? Or is that what passes for wit in your empty head?”

 

“Oi.” He frowns at her. “I’m not sticking my tongue out at you. I’m trying to catch snowflakes!”

 

River blinks at him. “Seriously?”

 

“Haven’t you ever tried it?” He sticks out his tongue again, catching a few flakes. “Come on, give it a go.”

 

Arms crossed over her chest, River shakes her head. “I am not -”

 

“Afraid you’ll look as silly as me?”

 

She snorts. “No one looks as silly as you.”

 

“Then what are you waiting for?” He holds out his tongue again, lifting his brows at her in silent challenge.

 

River looks at him, glances at the sky again, and sighs loudly, stomping back down the stairs in her high heeled boots to stand next to him on the pavement. He nudges her and the hot chocolate in his cup sloshes over the rim, scalding his hand. Grimacing, he licks at his hand and says, “Go on then.”

 

In unison, they both tip back their heads but John doesn’t try to catch any snowflakes. He’s far too busy watching River out of the corner of his eye, admiring the snow in her hair and the fierce irritation with him she can never quite hide. He rather loves that about her. She licks her lips and with another little sigh of annoyance through her nose, sticks out her tongue.

 

He grins, following the journey of one little snowflake with his eyes as it drifts from the heavens and twirls in the air around them, landing on the tip of River’s waiting tongue. She laughs – a real, genuine sound of merriment in his company. It makes his heart stutter.

 

“See?” He manages. “Wasn’t that fun?”

 

“You’re still an idiot,” she says, but when she glances at him, she’s still smiling. It’s warm and bright and entirely without her usual snide derision at his expense. His heart picks up pace in his chest and he bounces on his toes, smiling back at her like the lovesick fool he is. “And you’ve just spilled your hot chocolate down your front.”

 

Wait – what?

 

He glances down, finally registering the burn of hot liquid soaking through his hideous jumper before he even sees the stain. Oh. Bugger.

 

_iii.)_

 

When he opens his eyes, he is certain he’s still dreaming. In what universe would he ever wake up in River Song’s flat, in River Song's bed, with River Song wrapped around him, warm and soft, her hair tickling his nose and her light snores in his ear? No universe. Ever.

 

He huffs her hair away before he inhales it by accident and taps his fingers anxiously, only to stop at once. His hand is on her bum. He flushes, suddenly very aware of their lack of clothing. After they had sheepishly emerged from Amy and Rory’s kitchen yesterday – his blush deepens at the memory – only to find the couple missing, River had tugged him into a cab and to her flat. They’d fallen into her big, comfy bed and that part he remembers so vividly there is no way it was a dream.

 

Years of what Pond insisted on calling pining, and he’s actually, properly here. He grins at the ceiling and strokes his fingertips up River’s spine. She snuffles sleepily against his chest and nestles closer, her small hands gripping him tightly to her. John bites his lip hard against a fit of giggles. River Song likes to cuddle. He buries his face in her wild curls and hugs her close.

 

Grumbling into his neck, River wriggles against him and blinks open one eye to glare. He beams at her. “Hello.”

 

“Ugh, you’re a morning person.” She closes her eyes again, groaning as she curls into a ball and bullies him into holding her again. “Should have known.”

 

“Of course I’m a morning person. Who isn’t a morning person?” He pokes her side, lips brushing her forehead. “Mornings are brilliant.”

 

River grunts, swatting his hand away.

 

“I mean, breakfast food is delicious and the day is just beginning and anything could happen,” he gushes. “And I mean, waking up here is definitely a bit of a bonus -”

 

Reaching up a tired hand, River gently presses her fingertips to his mouth. “Shh, sweetie.” His heart swells at the name, spoken without a hint of mockery. “Sleeping.”

 

“Right,” he whispers against her fingers, still smiling. “Sorry. Carry on.”

 

“Stop smiling,” she grumbles. “Too early to smile.”

 

“Can’t help it.” He kisses the pads of her fingers, sighing with content when she trails her knuckles along his jaw in a sleepy caress. “Too happy.”

 

“Sap.”

 

Hearing the smile in her words, he hums. “S’your fault.”

 

She rests her head on his chest again and opens her eyes, squinting in the morning light. “I would never have shagged you if I knew it would make you even more annoying than usual.”

 

“Would too have.” He stretches amongst her rumpled sheets and rolls over, pressing her into the mattress. She doesn’t put up a fight, warm and pliant against him as he pins her in place, dropping a kiss to her bare shoulder. “I’m irresistible.”

 

She snorts. “Is that why it took me so long to snog you?”

 

Pulling back to frown at her, he lets his eyes slide over her features – sleepy, amused green eyes, the little grin curling her lovely mouth, the pillow crease on one cheek – and feels utterly incapable of being insulted. “That’s your fault. You were stubborn and blind to my many attributes.”

 

River laughs and for once he doesn’t even care that it’s at his expense. “What attributes? Clumsiness? Blushing?”

 

“Oi, you like it when I blush. It makes you feel naughty.”

 

She stares at him, wide-eyed.

 

“What?”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

He shrugs. “Years of pining, Song. Lots of time to think.”

 

Her eyes soften and she reaches up a hand to tangle in his hair. “Lots of time to make up for then.”

 

_iv.)_

 

Being River Song’s husband is pretty much exactly how he’d imagined – exciting and exhausting and sexy and with lots of bickering. And it’s only been forty-eight hours. “River, no.”

 

“Why not?”

 

He snorts. She constantly berates him for acting like a child but right now her voice is about the same pitch as a five year old not getting her way. “Because I hate needles and commitment and -”

 

She frowns. “You married me.”

 

“Yeah but I can get rid of you if I change my mind.” He grins unrepentantly at her when she glares, reaching for his coffee. “Tattoos are more permanent.”

 

“I hate you,” she grumbles, and tries to tug her hand from his.

 

He refuses to let her, tightening his fingers around her own and bringing her hand up so he can kiss her knuckles. “No, you don’t.” He laces their fingers together and lets them rest on the table between them. He uses his free hand to cut off a piece of his crêpe and dip it in his coffee, ignoring her look of disapproval. “What do you want matching tattoos for anyway? Isn’t matching rings enough for you?”

 

“Oh, definitely, honey.” River eyes him over the rim of her sunglasses, her thumb sliding smoothly over the band on his finger. He ducks his head to hide a besotted grin, biting his lip. Sometimes, it still feels a bit like a dream – finally belonging somewhere. Belonging with her, of all people. River Song actually married _him_. “I just thought this might be a nice honeymoon experience.”

 

“Honeymoon exper -” He huffs, lifting his head again to glare at her through his fringe. “You know, most people are happy to lock themselves away in a hotel room and shag copiously.”

 

River sniffs, adjusting the colorful silk scarf tied around her curls. “We’re not most people.” Her lips curl into a smirk that makes his heart skip a beat. “But don’t worry, sweetie. I have plans for that too.”

 

He blushes, determinedly stamping down on that flutter of excitement in his belly. Damn her. “Can’t you just get your own tattoo and I’ll watch?”

 

“What? No!” She actually properly pouts at him and he hides a grin behind his free hand because honestly, he has been such a terrible influence on her. “Matching tattoos, sweetie. You have to get one as well.”

 

“OK, fine. Let’s just say I completely lose my mind and agree to this insane idea. What would we even get that we’d both agree on?” It had taken them an hour of bickering to decide on a café for lunch and another ten minutes of debate before they agreed to sit outside at a table beneath an umbrella.

 

Slipping off her sunglasses, River gives him a sly look from beneath her eyelashes, green eyes gleaming with some little secret. Blimey but he loves that look. It almost always means he’s going to want to snog her very, very soon. “Well,” she says, and pauses dramatically to sip her coffee. He rolls his eyes. “I thought we might get something meaningful to both of us.”

 

“Yes, such as?”

 

River purses her lips. “Swallows. One for me and one for you.”

 

His hand tightens reflexively around hers and he blinks at her, suddenly breathless. “You’d – I mean -” He swallows past the lump in his throat and grins hopefully at her broad smile. “With me? Really?”

 

She nods, crinkling her nose adorably as she shrugs. “I thought you might approve. But since you’re so terrified of needles and commitment -”

 

“Wait, hang on a mo-”

 

“Yes, sweetie?”

 

He blushes when she raises an eyebrow, scratching his cheek. “I suppose I could be… persuaded.”

 

“Persuaded, hmm?” She hums triumphantly, sliding her sunglasses back on. “Alright, but you’re going first.”

 

“Me?” He sputters. “Why?”

 

“Because I am not about to get a tattoo of a bird on my hip only to have you utterly scarred by watching and refuse to get yours.” She sips her coffee, looking so irritable he wants to kiss her fingers again. He doesn’t stop himself. It’s his honeymoon, after all. He’s allowed to be a bit of a sap. “Then it won’t be romantic, it will be weird. I’ll be the weird lady with the bird tattoo.”

 

“River, I won’t let you be the weird bird tattoo lady.” He smothers a laugh at her suspicious glare. “I promise.”

 

“And why should I trust you, Mr. Smith?”

 

“Well, I did promise you Paris,” he reasons, glancing over his shoulder. The Eiffel Tower is visible over the buildings behind them, looming in the distance. “And look where we are, Mrs. Smith.”

 

“True.” She hums, lips twisting in a wry smirk. “You _have_ proven yourself to be a man of your word. So far.”

 

“So far?” He huffs in annoyance but River can’t quite seem to stop smiling at him so being offended is a bit impossible. He makes a valiant attempt anyway, blustering and gesturing with his hands until River gets tired of bickering with him and yanks him across the table by his bowtie, snogging him quiet.

 

It’s only been forty-eight hours but this marriage thing?

 

He thinks he’s getting the hang of it.


End file.
